Tell me frankly; I assure you
beforehand
that I
am not quick to take offence?
am not quick to take offence?
Dostoevsky - White Nights and Other Stories
Project Gutenberg's White Nights and Other Stories, by Fyodor Dostoevsky
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www. gutenberg. org
Title: White Nights and Other Stories
The Novels of Fyodor Dostoevsky, Volume X
Author: Fyodor Dostoevsky
Translator: Constance Garnett
Release Date: May 5, 2011 [EBook #36034]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHITE NIGHTS AND OTHER STORIES ***
Produced by Jan-Fabian Humann, Carol Ann Brown, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www. pgdp. net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries. )
WHITE NIGHTS
AND OTHER STORIES
THE NOVELS OF
FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY
VOLUME X
WHITE NIGHTS
AND OTHER STORIES BY
FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY
FROM THE RUSSIAN BY
CONSTANCE GARNETT
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1918
_Printed in Great Britain_
CONTENTS
PAGE
WHITE NIGHTS 1
NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND--
PART I. UNDERGROUND 50
PART II. À PROPOS OF THE WET SNOW 81
A FAINT HEART 156
A CHRISTMAS TREE AND A WEDDING 200
POLZUNKOV 208
A LITTLE HERO 223
MR. PROHARTCHIN 258
WHITE NIGHTS
A SENTIMENTAL STORY FROM THE DIARY OF A DREAMER
FIRST NIGHT
It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are
young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at
it, one could not help asking oneself whether ill-humoured and
capricious people could live under such a sky. That is a youthful
question too, dear reader, very youthful, but may the Lord put it more
frequently into your heart! . . . Speaking of capricious and ill-humoured
people, I cannot help recalling my moral condition all that day. From
early morning I had been oppressed by a strange despondency. It suddenly
seemed to me that I was lonely, that every one was forsaking me and
going away from me. Of course, any one is entitled to ask who "every
one" was. For though I had been living almost eight years in Petersburg
I had hardly an acquaintance. But what did I want with acquaintances? I
was acquainted with all Petersburg as it was; that was why I felt as
though they were all deserting me when all Petersburg packed up and went
to its summer villa. I felt afraid of being left alone, and for three
whole days I wandered about the town in profound dejection, not knowing
what to do with myself. Whether I walked in the Nevsky, went to the
Gardens or sauntered on the embankment, there was not one face of those
I had been accustomed to meet at the same time and place all the year.
They, of course, do not know me, but I know them. I know them
intimately, I have almost made a study of their faces, and am delighted
when they are gay, and downcast when they are under a cloud. I have
almost struck up a friendship with one old man whom I meet every blessed
day, at the same hour in Fontanka. Such a grave, pensive countenance; he
is always whispering to himself and brandishing his left arm, while in
his right hand he holds a long gnarled stick with a gold knob. He even
notices me and takes a warm interest in me. If I happen not to be at a
certain time in the same spot in Fontanka, I am certain he feels
disappointed. That is how it is that we almost bow to each other,
especially when we are both in good humour. The other day, when we had
not seen each other for two days and met on the third, we were actually
touching our hats, but, realizing in time, dropped our hands and passed
each other with a look of interest.
I know the houses too. As I walk along they seem to run forward in the
streets to look out at me from every window, and almost to say:
"Good-morning! How do you do? I am quite well, thank God, and I am to
have a new storey in May," or, "How are you? I am being redecorated
to-morrow;" or, "I was almost burnt down and had such a fright," and so
on. I have my favourites among them, some are dear friends; one of them
intends to be treated by the architect this summer. I shall go every day
on purpose to see that the operation is not a failure. God forbid! But I
shall never forget an incident with a very pretty little house of a
light pink colour. It was such a charming little brick house, it looked
so hospitably at me, and so proudly at its ungainly neighbours, that my
heart rejoiced whenever I happened to pass it. Suddenly last week I
walked along the street, and when I looked at my friend I heard a
plaintive, "They are painting me yellow! " The villains! The barbarians!
They had spared nothing, neither columns, nor cornices, and my poor
little friend was as yellow as a canary. It almost made me bilious. And
to this day I have not had the courage to visit my poor disfigured
friend, painted the colour of the Celestial Empire.
So now you understand, reader, in what sense I am acquainted with all
Petersburg.
I have mentioned already that I had felt worried for three whole days
before I guessed the cause of my uneasiness. And I felt ill at ease in
the street--this one had gone and that one had gone, and what had become
of the other? --and at home I did not feel like myself either. For two
evenings I was puzzling my brains to think what was amiss in my corner;
why I felt so uncomfortable in it. And in perplexity I scanned my grimy
green walls, my ceiling covered with a spider's web, the growth of which
Matrona has so successfully encouraged. I looked over all my furniture,
examined every chair, wondering whether the trouble lay there (for if
one chair is not standing in the same position as it stood the day
before, I am not myself). I looked at the window, but it was all in vain
. . . I was not a bit the better for it! I even bethought me to send for
Matrona, and was giving her some fatherly admonitions in regard to the
spider's web and sluttishness in general; but she simply stared at me in
amazement and went away without saying a word, so that the spider's web
is comfortably hanging in its place to this day. I only at last this
morning realized what was wrong. Aie! Why, they are giving me the slip
and making off to their summer villas! Forgive the triviality of the
expression, but I am in no mood for fine language . . . for everything
that had been in Petersburg had gone or was going away for the holidays;
for every respectable gentleman of dignified appearance who took a cab
was at once transformed, in my eyes, into a respectable head of a
household who after his daily duties were over, was making his way to
the bosom of his family, to the summer villa; for all the passers-by had
now quite a peculiar air which seemed to say to every one they met: "We
are only here for the moment, gentlemen, and in another two hours we
shall be going off to the summer villa. " If a window opened after
delicate fingers, white as snow, had tapped upon the pane, and the head
of a pretty girl was thrust out, calling to a street-seller with pots of
flowers--at once on the spot I fancied that those flowers were being
bought not simply in order to enjoy the flowers and the spring in stuffy
town lodgings, but because they would all be very soon moving into the
country and could take the flowers with them. What is more, I made such
progress in my new peculiar sort of investigation that I could
distinguish correctly from the mere air of each in what summer villa he
was living. The inhabitants of Kamenny and Aptekarsky Islands or of the
Peterhof Road were marked by the studied elegance of their manner, their
fashionable summer suits, and the fine carriages in which they drove to
town. Visitors to Pargolovo and places further away impressed one at
first sight by their reasonable and dignified air; the tripper to
Krestovsky Island could be recognized by his look of irrepressible
gaiety. If I chanced to meet a long procession of waggoners walking
lazily with the reins in their hands beside waggons loaded with regular
mountains of furniture, tables, chairs, ottomans and sofas and domestic
utensils of all sorts, frequently with a decrepit cook sitting on the
top of it all, guarding her master's property as though it were the
apple of her eye; or if I saw boats heavily loaded with household goods
crawling along the Neva or Fontanka to the Black River or the
Islands--the waggons and the boats were multiplied tenfold, a
hundredfold, in my eyes. I fancied that everything was astir and moving,
everything was going in regular caravans to the summer villas. It seemed
as though Petersburg threatened to become a wilderness, so that at last
I felt ashamed, mortified and sad that I had nowhere to go for the
holidays and no reason to go away. I was ready to go away with every
waggon, to drive off with every gentleman of respectable appearance who
took a cab; but no one--absolutely no one--invited me; it seemed they
had forgotten me, as though really I were a stranger to them!
I took long walks, succeeding, as I usually did, in quite forgetting
where I was, when I suddenly found myself at the city gates. Instantly I
felt lighthearted, and I passed the barrier and walked between
cultivated fields and meadows, unconscious of fatigue, and feeling only
all over as though a burden were falling off my soul. All the passers-by
gave me such friendly looks that they seemed almost greeting me, they
all seemed so pleased at something. They were all smoking cigars, every
one of them. And I felt pleased as I never had before. It was as though
I had suddenly found myself in Italy--so strong was the effect of nature
upon a half-sick townsman like me, almost stifling between city walls.
There is something inexpressibly touching in nature round Petersburg,
when at the approach of spring she puts forth all her might, all the
powers bestowed on her by Heaven, when she breaks into leaf, decks
herself out and spangles herself with flowers. . . . Somehow I cannot help
being reminded of a frail, consumptive girl, at whom one sometimes looks
with compassion, sometimes with sympathetic love, whom sometimes one
simply does not notice; though suddenly in one instant she becomes, as
though by chance, inexplicably lovely and exquisite, and, impressed and
intoxicated, one cannot help asking oneself what power made those sad,
pensive eyes flash with such fire? What summoned the blood to those
pale, wan cheeks? What bathed with passion those soft features? What set
that bosom heaving? What so suddenly called strength, life and beauty
into the poor girl's face, making it gleam with such a smile, kindle
with such bright, sparkling laughter? You look round, you seek for some
one, you conjecture. . . . But the moment passes, and next day you meet,
maybe, the same pensive and preoccupied look as before, the same pale
face, the same meek and timid movements, and even signs of remorse,
traces of a mortal anguish and regret for the fleeting distraction. . . .
And you grieve that the momentary beauty has faded so soon never to
return, that it flashed upon you so treacherously, so vainly, grieve
because you had not even time to love her. . . .
And yet my night was better than my day! This was how it happened.
I came back to the town very late, and it had struck ten as I was going
towards my lodgings. My way lay along the canal embankment, where at
that hour you never meet a soul. It is true that I live in a very remote
part of the town. I walked along singing, for when I am happy I am
always humming to myself like every happy man who has no friend or
acquaintance with whom to share his joy. Suddenly I had a most
unexpected adventure.
Leaning on the canal railing stood a woman with her elbows on the rail,
she was apparently looking with great attention at the muddy water of
the canal. She was wearing a very charming yellow hat and a jaunty
little black mantle. "She's a girl, and I am sure she is dark," I
thought. She did not seem to hear my footsteps, and did not even stir
when I passed by with bated breath and loudly throbbing heart.
"Strange," I thought; "she must be deeply absorbed in something," and
all at once I stopped as though petrified. I heard a muffled sob. Yes! I
was not mistaken, the girl was crying, and a minute later I heard sob
after sob. Good Heavens! My heart sank. And timid as I was with women,
yet this was such a moment! . . . I turned, took a step towards her, and
should certainly have pronounced the word "Madam! " if I had not known
that that exclamation has been uttered a thousand times in every Russian
society novel. It was only that reflection stopped me. But while I was
seeking for a word, the girl came to herself, looked round, started,
cast down her eyes and slipped by me along the embankment. I at once
followed her; but she, divining this, left the embankment, crossed the
road and walked along the pavement. I dared not cross the street after
her. My heart was fluttering like a captured bird. All at once a chance
came to my aid.
Along the same side of the pavement there suddenly came into sight, not
far from the girl, a gentleman in evening dress, of dignified years,
though by no means of dignified carriage; he was staggering and
cautiously leaning against the wall. The girl flew straight as an arrow,
with the timid haste one sees in all girls who do not want any one to
volunteer to accompany them home at night, and no doubt the staggering
gentleman would not have pursued her, if my good luck had not prompted
him.
Suddenly, without a word to any one, the gentleman set off and flew full
speed in pursuit of my unknown lady. She was racing like the wind, but
the staggering gentleman was overtaking--overtook her. The girl uttered
a shriek, and . . . I bless my luck for the excellent knotted stick, which
happened on that occasion to be in my right hand. In a flash I was on
the other side of the street; in a flash the obtrusive gentleman had
taken in the position, had grasped the irresistible argument, fallen
back without a word, and only when we were very far away protested
against my action in rather vigorous language. But his words hardly
reached us.
"Give me your arm," I said to the girl. "And he won't dare to annoy us
further. "
She took my arm without a word, still trembling with excitement and
terror. Oh, obtrusive gentleman! How I blessed you at that moment! I
stole a glance at her, she was very charming and dark--I had guessed
right.
On her black eyelashes there still glistened a tear--from her recent
terror or her former grief--I don't know. But there was already a gleam
of a smile on her lips. She too stole a glance at me, faintly blushed
and looked down.
"There, you see; why did you drive me away? If I had been here, nothing
would have happened. . . . "
"But I did not know you; I thought that you too. . . . "
"Why, do you know me now? "
"A little! Here, for instance, why are you trembling? "
"Oh, you are right at the first guess! " I answered, delighted that my
girl had intelligence; that is never out of place in company with
beauty. "Yes, from the first glance you have guessed the sort of man you
have to do with. Precisely; I am shy with women, I am agitated, I don't
deny it, as much so as you were a minute ago when that gentleman alarmed
you. I am in some alarm now. It's like a dream, and I never guessed even
in my sleep that I should ever talk with any woman. "
"What? Really? . . . "
"Yes; if my arm trembles, it is because it has never been held by a
pretty little hand like yours. I am a complete stranger to women; that
is, I have never been used to them. You see, I am alone. . . . I don't even
know how to talk to them. Here, I don't know now whether I have not said
something silly to you! Tell me frankly; I assure you beforehand that I
am not quick to take offence? . . . "
"No, nothing, nothing, quite the contrary. And if you insist on my
speaking frankly, I will tell you that women like such timidity; and if
you want to know more, I like it too, and I won't drive you away till I
get home. "
"You will make me," I said, breathless with delight, "lose my timidity,
and then farewell to all my chances. . . . "
"Chances! What chances--of what? That's not so nice. "
"I beg your pardon, I am sorry, it was a slip of the tongue; but how can
you expect one at such a moment to have no desire. . . . "
"To be liked, eh?
Tell me frankly; I assure you beforehand that I
am not quick to take offence? . . . "
"No, nothing, nothing, quite the contrary. And if you insist on my
speaking frankly, I will tell you that women like such timidity; and if
you want to know more, I like it too, and I won't drive you away till I
get home. "
"You will make me," I said, breathless with delight, "lose my timidity,
and then farewell to all my chances. . . . "
"Chances! What chances--of what? That's not so nice. "
"I beg your pardon, I am sorry, it was a slip of the tongue; but how can
you expect one at such a moment to have no desire. . . . "
"To be liked, eh? "
"Well, yes; but do, for goodness' sake, be kind. Think what I am! Here,
I am twenty-six and I have never seen any one. How can I speak well,
tactfully, and to the point? It will seem better to you when I have told
you everything openly. . . . I don't know how to be silent when my heart is
speaking. Well, never mind. . . . Believe me, not one woman, never, never!
No acquaintance of any sort! And I do nothing but dream every day that
at last I shall meet some one. Oh, if only you knew how often I have
been in love in that way. . . . "
"How? With whom? . . . "
"Why, with no one, with an ideal, with the one I dream of in my sleep. I
make up regular romances in my dreams. Ah, you don't know me! It's true,
of course, I have met two or three women, but what sort of women were
they? They were all landladies, that. . . . But I shall make you laugh if I
tell you that I have several times thought of speaking, just simply
speaking, to some aristocratic lady in the street, when she is alone, I
need hardly say; speaking to her, of course, timidly, respectfully,
passionately; telling her that I am perishing in solitude, begging her
not to send me away; saying that I have no chance of making the
acquaintance of any woman; impressing upon her that it is a positive
duty for a woman not to repulse so timid a prayer from such a luckless
man as me. That, in fact, all I ask is, that she should say two or three
sisterly words with sympathy, should not repulse me at first sight;
should take me on trust and listen to what I say; should laugh at me if
she likes, encourage me, say two words to me, only two words, even
though we never meet again afterwards! . . . But you are laughing; however,
that is why I am telling you. . . . "
"Don't be vexed; I am only laughing at your being your own enemy, and if
you had tried you would have succeeded, perhaps, even though it had been
in the street; the simpler the better. . . . No kind-hearted woman, unless
she were stupid or, still more, vexed about something at the moment,
could bring herself to send you away without those two words which you
ask for so timidly. . . . But what am I saying? Of course she would take
you for a madman. I was judging by myself; I know a good deal about
other people's lives. "
"Oh, thank you," I cried; "you don't know what you have done for me
now! "
"I am glad! I am glad! But tell me how did you find out that I was the
sort of woman with whom . . . well, whom you think worthy . . . of attention
and friendship . . . in fact, not a landlady as you say? What made you
decide to come up to me? "
"What made me? . . . But you were alone; that gentleman was too insolent;
it's night. You must admit that it was a duty. . . . "
"No, no; I mean before, on the other side--you know you meant to come up
to me. "
"On the other side? Really I don't know how to answer; I am afraid
to. . . . Do you know I have been happy to-day? I walked along singing; I
went out into the country; I have never had such happy moments. You . . .
perhaps it was my fancy. . . . Forgive me for referring to it; I fancied
you were crying, and I . . . could not bear to hear it . . . it made my
heart ache. . . . Oh, my goodness! Surely I might be troubled about you?
Surely there was no harm in feeling brotherly compassion for you. . . . I
beg your pardon, I said compassion. . . . Well, in short, surely you would
not be offended at my involuntary impulse to go up to you? . . . "
"Stop, that's enough, don't talk of it," said the girl, looking down,
and pressing my hand. "It's my fault for having spoken of it; but I am
glad I was not mistaken in you. . . . But here I am home; I must go down
this turning, it's two steps from here. . . . Good-bye, thank you! . . . "
"Surely . . . surely you don't mean . . . that we shall never see each other
again? . . . Surely this is not to be the end? "
"You see," said the girl, laughing, "at first you only wanted two words,
and now. . . . However, I won't say anything . . . perhaps we shall meet. . . . "
"I shall come here to-morrow," I said. "Oh, forgive me, I am already
making demands. . . . "
"Yes, you are not very patient . . . you are almost insisting. "
"Listen, listen! " I interrupted her. "Forgive me if I tell you something
else. . . . I tell you what, I can't help coming here to-morrow, I am a
dreamer; I have so little real life that I look upon such moments as
this now, as so rare, that I cannot help going over such moments again
in my dreams. I shall be dreaming of you all night, a whole week, a
whole year. I shall certainly come here to-morrow, just here to this
place, just at the same hour, and I shall be happy remembering to-day.
This place is dear to me already. I have already two or three such
places in Petersburg. I once shed tears over memories . . . like you. . . .
Who knows, perhaps you were weeping ten minutes ago over some memory. . . .
But, forgive me, I have forgotten myself again; perhaps you have once
been particularly happy here. .
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www. gutenberg. org
Title: White Nights and Other Stories
The Novels of Fyodor Dostoevsky, Volume X
Author: Fyodor Dostoevsky
Translator: Constance Garnett
Release Date: May 5, 2011 [EBook #36034]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHITE NIGHTS AND OTHER STORIES ***
Produced by Jan-Fabian Humann, Carol Ann Brown, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www. pgdp. net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries. )
WHITE NIGHTS
AND OTHER STORIES
THE NOVELS OF
FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY
VOLUME X
WHITE NIGHTS
AND OTHER STORIES BY
FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY
FROM THE RUSSIAN BY
CONSTANCE GARNETT
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1918
_Printed in Great Britain_
CONTENTS
PAGE
WHITE NIGHTS 1
NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND--
PART I. UNDERGROUND 50
PART II. À PROPOS OF THE WET SNOW 81
A FAINT HEART 156
A CHRISTMAS TREE AND A WEDDING 200
POLZUNKOV 208
A LITTLE HERO 223
MR. PROHARTCHIN 258
WHITE NIGHTS
A SENTIMENTAL STORY FROM THE DIARY OF A DREAMER
FIRST NIGHT
It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are
young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at
it, one could not help asking oneself whether ill-humoured and
capricious people could live under such a sky. That is a youthful
question too, dear reader, very youthful, but may the Lord put it more
frequently into your heart! . . . Speaking of capricious and ill-humoured
people, I cannot help recalling my moral condition all that day. From
early morning I had been oppressed by a strange despondency. It suddenly
seemed to me that I was lonely, that every one was forsaking me and
going away from me. Of course, any one is entitled to ask who "every
one" was. For though I had been living almost eight years in Petersburg
I had hardly an acquaintance. But what did I want with acquaintances? I
was acquainted with all Petersburg as it was; that was why I felt as
though they were all deserting me when all Petersburg packed up and went
to its summer villa. I felt afraid of being left alone, and for three
whole days I wandered about the town in profound dejection, not knowing
what to do with myself. Whether I walked in the Nevsky, went to the
Gardens or sauntered on the embankment, there was not one face of those
I had been accustomed to meet at the same time and place all the year.
They, of course, do not know me, but I know them. I know them
intimately, I have almost made a study of their faces, and am delighted
when they are gay, and downcast when they are under a cloud. I have
almost struck up a friendship with one old man whom I meet every blessed
day, at the same hour in Fontanka. Such a grave, pensive countenance; he
is always whispering to himself and brandishing his left arm, while in
his right hand he holds a long gnarled stick with a gold knob. He even
notices me and takes a warm interest in me. If I happen not to be at a
certain time in the same spot in Fontanka, I am certain he feels
disappointed. That is how it is that we almost bow to each other,
especially when we are both in good humour. The other day, when we had
not seen each other for two days and met on the third, we were actually
touching our hats, but, realizing in time, dropped our hands and passed
each other with a look of interest.
I know the houses too. As I walk along they seem to run forward in the
streets to look out at me from every window, and almost to say:
"Good-morning! How do you do? I am quite well, thank God, and I am to
have a new storey in May," or, "How are you? I am being redecorated
to-morrow;" or, "I was almost burnt down and had such a fright," and so
on. I have my favourites among them, some are dear friends; one of them
intends to be treated by the architect this summer. I shall go every day
on purpose to see that the operation is not a failure. God forbid! But I
shall never forget an incident with a very pretty little house of a
light pink colour. It was such a charming little brick house, it looked
so hospitably at me, and so proudly at its ungainly neighbours, that my
heart rejoiced whenever I happened to pass it. Suddenly last week I
walked along the street, and when I looked at my friend I heard a
plaintive, "They are painting me yellow! " The villains! The barbarians!
They had spared nothing, neither columns, nor cornices, and my poor
little friend was as yellow as a canary. It almost made me bilious. And
to this day I have not had the courage to visit my poor disfigured
friend, painted the colour of the Celestial Empire.
So now you understand, reader, in what sense I am acquainted with all
Petersburg.
I have mentioned already that I had felt worried for three whole days
before I guessed the cause of my uneasiness. And I felt ill at ease in
the street--this one had gone and that one had gone, and what had become
of the other? --and at home I did not feel like myself either. For two
evenings I was puzzling my brains to think what was amiss in my corner;
why I felt so uncomfortable in it. And in perplexity I scanned my grimy
green walls, my ceiling covered with a spider's web, the growth of which
Matrona has so successfully encouraged. I looked over all my furniture,
examined every chair, wondering whether the trouble lay there (for if
one chair is not standing in the same position as it stood the day
before, I am not myself). I looked at the window, but it was all in vain
. . . I was not a bit the better for it! I even bethought me to send for
Matrona, and was giving her some fatherly admonitions in regard to the
spider's web and sluttishness in general; but she simply stared at me in
amazement and went away without saying a word, so that the spider's web
is comfortably hanging in its place to this day. I only at last this
morning realized what was wrong. Aie! Why, they are giving me the slip
and making off to their summer villas! Forgive the triviality of the
expression, but I am in no mood for fine language . . . for everything
that had been in Petersburg had gone or was going away for the holidays;
for every respectable gentleman of dignified appearance who took a cab
was at once transformed, in my eyes, into a respectable head of a
household who after his daily duties were over, was making his way to
the bosom of his family, to the summer villa; for all the passers-by had
now quite a peculiar air which seemed to say to every one they met: "We
are only here for the moment, gentlemen, and in another two hours we
shall be going off to the summer villa. " If a window opened after
delicate fingers, white as snow, had tapped upon the pane, and the head
of a pretty girl was thrust out, calling to a street-seller with pots of
flowers--at once on the spot I fancied that those flowers were being
bought not simply in order to enjoy the flowers and the spring in stuffy
town lodgings, but because they would all be very soon moving into the
country and could take the flowers with them. What is more, I made such
progress in my new peculiar sort of investigation that I could
distinguish correctly from the mere air of each in what summer villa he
was living. The inhabitants of Kamenny and Aptekarsky Islands or of the
Peterhof Road were marked by the studied elegance of their manner, their
fashionable summer suits, and the fine carriages in which they drove to
town. Visitors to Pargolovo and places further away impressed one at
first sight by their reasonable and dignified air; the tripper to
Krestovsky Island could be recognized by his look of irrepressible
gaiety. If I chanced to meet a long procession of waggoners walking
lazily with the reins in their hands beside waggons loaded with regular
mountains of furniture, tables, chairs, ottomans and sofas and domestic
utensils of all sorts, frequently with a decrepit cook sitting on the
top of it all, guarding her master's property as though it were the
apple of her eye; or if I saw boats heavily loaded with household goods
crawling along the Neva or Fontanka to the Black River or the
Islands--the waggons and the boats were multiplied tenfold, a
hundredfold, in my eyes. I fancied that everything was astir and moving,
everything was going in regular caravans to the summer villas. It seemed
as though Petersburg threatened to become a wilderness, so that at last
I felt ashamed, mortified and sad that I had nowhere to go for the
holidays and no reason to go away. I was ready to go away with every
waggon, to drive off with every gentleman of respectable appearance who
took a cab; but no one--absolutely no one--invited me; it seemed they
had forgotten me, as though really I were a stranger to them!
I took long walks, succeeding, as I usually did, in quite forgetting
where I was, when I suddenly found myself at the city gates. Instantly I
felt lighthearted, and I passed the barrier and walked between
cultivated fields and meadows, unconscious of fatigue, and feeling only
all over as though a burden were falling off my soul. All the passers-by
gave me such friendly looks that they seemed almost greeting me, they
all seemed so pleased at something. They were all smoking cigars, every
one of them. And I felt pleased as I never had before. It was as though
I had suddenly found myself in Italy--so strong was the effect of nature
upon a half-sick townsman like me, almost stifling between city walls.
There is something inexpressibly touching in nature round Petersburg,
when at the approach of spring she puts forth all her might, all the
powers bestowed on her by Heaven, when she breaks into leaf, decks
herself out and spangles herself with flowers. . . . Somehow I cannot help
being reminded of a frail, consumptive girl, at whom one sometimes looks
with compassion, sometimes with sympathetic love, whom sometimes one
simply does not notice; though suddenly in one instant she becomes, as
though by chance, inexplicably lovely and exquisite, and, impressed and
intoxicated, one cannot help asking oneself what power made those sad,
pensive eyes flash with such fire? What summoned the blood to those
pale, wan cheeks? What bathed with passion those soft features? What set
that bosom heaving? What so suddenly called strength, life and beauty
into the poor girl's face, making it gleam with such a smile, kindle
with such bright, sparkling laughter? You look round, you seek for some
one, you conjecture. . . . But the moment passes, and next day you meet,
maybe, the same pensive and preoccupied look as before, the same pale
face, the same meek and timid movements, and even signs of remorse,
traces of a mortal anguish and regret for the fleeting distraction. . . .
And you grieve that the momentary beauty has faded so soon never to
return, that it flashed upon you so treacherously, so vainly, grieve
because you had not even time to love her. . . .
And yet my night was better than my day! This was how it happened.
I came back to the town very late, and it had struck ten as I was going
towards my lodgings. My way lay along the canal embankment, where at
that hour you never meet a soul. It is true that I live in a very remote
part of the town. I walked along singing, for when I am happy I am
always humming to myself like every happy man who has no friend or
acquaintance with whom to share his joy. Suddenly I had a most
unexpected adventure.
Leaning on the canal railing stood a woman with her elbows on the rail,
she was apparently looking with great attention at the muddy water of
the canal. She was wearing a very charming yellow hat and a jaunty
little black mantle. "She's a girl, and I am sure she is dark," I
thought. She did not seem to hear my footsteps, and did not even stir
when I passed by with bated breath and loudly throbbing heart.
"Strange," I thought; "she must be deeply absorbed in something," and
all at once I stopped as though petrified. I heard a muffled sob. Yes! I
was not mistaken, the girl was crying, and a minute later I heard sob
after sob. Good Heavens! My heart sank. And timid as I was with women,
yet this was such a moment! . . . I turned, took a step towards her, and
should certainly have pronounced the word "Madam! " if I had not known
that that exclamation has been uttered a thousand times in every Russian
society novel. It was only that reflection stopped me. But while I was
seeking for a word, the girl came to herself, looked round, started,
cast down her eyes and slipped by me along the embankment. I at once
followed her; but she, divining this, left the embankment, crossed the
road and walked along the pavement. I dared not cross the street after
her. My heart was fluttering like a captured bird. All at once a chance
came to my aid.
Along the same side of the pavement there suddenly came into sight, not
far from the girl, a gentleman in evening dress, of dignified years,
though by no means of dignified carriage; he was staggering and
cautiously leaning against the wall. The girl flew straight as an arrow,
with the timid haste one sees in all girls who do not want any one to
volunteer to accompany them home at night, and no doubt the staggering
gentleman would not have pursued her, if my good luck had not prompted
him.
Suddenly, without a word to any one, the gentleman set off and flew full
speed in pursuit of my unknown lady. She was racing like the wind, but
the staggering gentleman was overtaking--overtook her. The girl uttered
a shriek, and . . . I bless my luck for the excellent knotted stick, which
happened on that occasion to be in my right hand. In a flash I was on
the other side of the street; in a flash the obtrusive gentleman had
taken in the position, had grasped the irresistible argument, fallen
back without a word, and only when we were very far away protested
against my action in rather vigorous language. But his words hardly
reached us.
"Give me your arm," I said to the girl. "And he won't dare to annoy us
further. "
She took my arm without a word, still trembling with excitement and
terror. Oh, obtrusive gentleman! How I blessed you at that moment! I
stole a glance at her, she was very charming and dark--I had guessed
right.
On her black eyelashes there still glistened a tear--from her recent
terror or her former grief--I don't know. But there was already a gleam
of a smile on her lips. She too stole a glance at me, faintly blushed
and looked down.
"There, you see; why did you drive me away? If I had been here, nothing
would have happened. . . . "
"But I did not know you; I thought that you too. . . . "
"Why, do you know me now? "
"A little! Here, for instance, why are you trembling? "
"Oh, you are right at the first guess! " I answered, delighted that my
girl had intelligence; that is never out of place in company with
beauty. "Yes, from the first glance you have guessed the sort of man you
have to do with. Precisely; I am shy with women, I am agitated, I don't
deny it, as much so as you were a minute ago when that gentleman alarmed
you. I am in some alarm now. It's like a dream, and I never guessed even
in my sleep that I should ever talk with any woman. "
"What? Really? . . . "
"Yes; if my arm trembles, it is because it has never been held by a
pretty little hand like yours. I am a complete stranger to women; that
is, I have never been used to them. You see, I am alone. . . . I don't even
know how to talk to them. Here, I don't know now whether I have not said
something silly to you! Tell me frankly; I assure you beforehand that I
am not quick to take offence? . . . "
"No, nothing, nothing, quite the contrary. And if you insist on my
speaking frankly, I will tell you that women like such timidity; and if
you want to know more, I like it too, and I won't drive you away till I
get home. "
"You will make me," I said, breathless with delight, "lose my timidity,
and then farewell to all my chances. . . . "
"Chances! What chances--of what? That's not so nice. "
"I beg your pardon, I am sorry, it was a slip of the tongue; but how can
you expect one at such a moment to have no desire. . . . "
"To be liked, eh?
Tell me frankly; I assure you beforehand that I
am not quick to take offence? . . . "
"No, nothing, nothing, quite the contrary. And if you insist on my
speaking frankly, I will tell you that women like such timidity; and if
you want to know more, I like it too, and I won't drive you away till I
get home. "
"You will make me," I said, breathless with delight, "lose my timidity,
and then farewell to all my chances. . . . "
"Chances! What chances--of what? That's not so nice. "
"I beg your pardon, I am sorry, it was a slip of the tongue; but how can
you expect one at such a moment to have no desire. . . . "
"To be liked, eh? "
"Well, yes; but do, for goodness' sake, be kind. Think what I am! Here,
I am twenty-six and I have never seen any one. How can I speak well,
tactfully, and to the point? It will seem better to you when I have told
you everything openly. . . . I don't know how to be silent when my heart is
speaking. Well, never mind. . . . Believe me, not one woman, never, never!
No acquaintance of any sort! And I do nothing but dream every day that
at last I shall meet some one. Oh, if only you knew how often I have
been in love in that way. . . . "
"How? With whom? . . . "
"Why, with no one, with an ideal, with the one I dream of in my sleep. I
make up regular romances in my dreams. Ah, you don't know me! It's true,
of course, I have met two or three women, but what sort of women were
they? They were all landladies, that. . . . But I shall make you laugh if I
tell you that I have several times thought of speaking, just simply
speaking, to some aristocratic lady in the street, when she is alone, I
need hardly say; speaking to her, of course, timidly, respectfully,
passionately; telling her that I am perishing in solitude, begging her
not to send me away; saying that I have no chance of making the
acquaintance of any woman; impressing upon her that it is a positive
duty for a woman not to repulse so timid a prayer from such a luckless
man as me. That, in fact, all I ask is, that she should say two or three
sisterly words with sympathy, should not repulse me at first sight;
should take me on trust and listen to what I say; should laugh at me if
she likes, encourage me, say two words to me, only two words, even
though we never meet again afterwards! . . . But you are laughing; however,
that is why I am telling you. . . . "
"Don't be vexed; I am only laughing at your being your own enemy, and if
you had tried you would have succeeded, perhaps, even though it had been
in the street; the simpler the better. . . . No kind-hearted woman, unless
she were stupid or, still more, vexed about something at the moment,
could bring herself to send you away without those two words which you
ask for so timidly. . . . But what am I saying? Of course she would take
you for a madman. I was judging by myself; I know a good deal about
other people's lives. "
"Oh, thank you," I cried; "you don't know what you have done for me
now! "
"I am glad! I am glad! But tell me how did you find out that I was the
sort of woman with whom . . . well, whom you think worthy . . . of attention
and friendship . . . in fact, not a landlady as you say? What made you
decide to come up to me? "
"What made me? . . . But you were alone; that gentleman was too insolent;
it's night. You must admit that it was a duty. . . . "
"No, no; I mean before, on the other side--you know you meant to come up
to me. "
"On the other side? Really I don't know how to answer; I am afraid
to. . . . Do you know I have been happy to-day? I walked along singing; I
went out into the country; I have never had such happy moments. You . . .
perhaps it was my fancy. . . . Forgive me for referring to it; I fancied
you were crying, and I . . . could not bear to hear it . . . it made my
heart ache. . . . Oh, my goodness! Surely I might be troubled about you?
Surely there was no harm in feeling brotherly compassion for you. . . . I
beg your pardon, I said compassion. . . . Well, in short, surely you would
not be offended at my involuntary impulse to go up to you? . . . "
"Stop, that's enough, don't talk of it," said the girl, looking down,
and pressing my hand. "It's my fault for having spoken of it; but I am
glad I was not mistaken in you. . . . But here I am home; I must go down
this turning, it's two steps from here. . . . Good-bye, thank you! . . . "
"Surely . . . surely you don't mean . . . that we shall never see each other
again? . . . Surely this is not to be the end? "
"You see," said the girl, laughing, "at first you only wanted two words,
and now. . . . However, I won't say anything . . . perhaps we shall meet. . . . "
"I shall come here to-morrow," I said. "Oh, forgive me, I am already
making demands. . . . "
"Yes, you are not very patient . . . you are almost insisting. "
"Listen, listen! " I interrupted her. "Forgive me if I tell you something
else. . . . I tell you what, I can't help coming here to-morrow, I am a
dreamer; I have so little real life that I look upon such moments as
this now, as so rare, that I cannot help going over such moments again
in my dreams. I shall be dreaming of you all night, a whole week, a
whole year. I shall certainly come here to-morrow, just here to this
place, just at the same hour, and I shall be happy remembering to-day.
This place is dear to me already. I have already two or three such
places in Petersburg. I once shed tears over memories . . . like you. . . .
Who knows, perhaps you were weeping ten minutes ago over some memory. . . .
But, forgive me, I have forgotten myself again; perhaps you have once
been particularly happy here. .
